


flowers in the dust

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Beating, Consensual Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Forced Orgasm, Gentle Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5923906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Peter lets him get it out of his system, but isn’t gentle. Isn’t a punching bag. Stiles ends up on his belly, both his wrists held behind his back in one of Peter’s hands, the other mashing his face to the floor with a tight grip on his hair. Peter’s kneeling on the backs of his thighs, and it fucking hurts, but. It’s easy, this hurt. </i><br/>____</p>
<p>Three times Peter and Stiles are kindred fucked-up souls, and one time Scott's there to see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers in the dust

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came into being as a way to cure to writer's block, and not only did it work, but now there's Steter! Title and inspiration taken from Evanescence's Lose Control (which is deliciously creepy). 
> 
> Betaed/cheerlead/enabled (as always) by my shoulder devils, BelleAmante and DenaCeleste, without whom I would probably only write half as much.

 

The first time it happens is right after Stiles has been chewed out in front of the entire pack. He’s standing there shaking, minutes after everyone else has left the abandoned warehouse. He can’t quiet the screaming in his head, and it’s too loud to think past. He tries to make the shaking stop, but. Too much adrenaline.

And then there’s Peter’s voice in his ear, as tempting as the devil himself. “Lose control, Stiles.”

He stares for several long seconds. “What?” he finally manages.

Peter’s eyes flare deadly blue. “Stop fighting it. You’re about to fly apart at the seams. Let go.”

Stiles stares, wondering if that’s something he can even do. And then Peter smirks faintly, his eyebrows raising, and Stiles wants to punch the expression right off his stupid face. So he does.

Well. He tries.

Peter lets him get it out of his system, but isn’t gentle. Isn’t a punching bag. Stiles ends up on his belly, both his wrists held behind his back in one of Peter’s hands, the other mashing his face to the floor with a tight grip on his hair. Peter’s kneeling on the backs of his thighs, and it fucking hurts, but. It’s easy, this hurt.

Peter moves, then, the hand that was in his hair sliding away, to his waist. The shriek of his hamstrings fades into a whine as Peter’s weight disappears. And then Peter’s hand is sliding deftly under his clothes to grip his cock. He’s mostly soft.

(He doesn’t stay that way.)

Peter doesn't stop until he comes, his wrists still in Peter’s clawed grip and his clothes still on. He feels empty, after. Wrung out. Hollow. But clean, somehow.

When Peter lets him go, he rolls over. Looks at the oldest Hale. “Someone’s gonna find out about this.” He’s not sure if it’s more statement, warning, or complaint.

Peter’s come-sticky fingers press against his lips. “Not if we play very, very quietly.”

He likes the sound of that more than he should.

 

***

 

The second time it happens is right after Stiles finds P—the body. He knew her. Hours later, it’s all he can see. Smell. Think about.

Peter shows up, crawling through his bedroom window. He studies Stiles’s face for . . . a while. Finally, he makes some kind of decision. “What do you want?” His voice is soft.

Stiles stares off into nowhere, seeing nothing. “To hurt something.”

Peter nods, like he expected that. He snaps out of it when Peter lays his own belt across Stiles’s lap. Looking up sharply, he sees Peter strip out of his shirt. Stiles watches, slack-jawed, as Peter settles himself backwards in Stiles’s desk chair.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Aim for the general area of the shoulder blades.” Peter turns, looks at him for a moment. “If you fold it in half, you’ll have better control.”

He shouldn’t. Everything about this is fucked up. He shouldn’t even _want_ to. But the perfect canvas of Peter’s back is too much to resist.

By the time he stops, Peter’s back is splotched with red and blooming purple. His arm is sore. But his mind is empty.

He lays kisses over the almost-bruises on Peter’s back until he falls asleep. He doesn’t dream. When he wakes up, the only proof he has that it happened at all is Peter’s scent on the sheets, and the ache in his shoulder.

 

***

 

The third time is different. The third time, it’s Peter who’s snarling and snapping in the aftermath of a haunting. The third time, it’s Stiles who comes up and whispers, “Let go.”

Peter turns, sneering, to call him foolish. Stupid. Reckless. When he lays eyes on the boy, he realizes that Stiles isn’t any of those.

Because Stiles knows. He knows the devastation that Peter is capable of. Knows that Peter could kill or maim him. But he understands what Peter’s feeling, and he’s giving Peter the opportunity to work through it.

For a fraction of a second, it’s tempting. But then the weight in Stiles’s eyes catches his attention.

The boy didn’t offer out of sheer understanding or idiotic faith in Peter’s ability to prevent himself from doing irreversible damage. He offered because he doesn’t care what happens to him. Maybe he even likes the thought of damage. Of dying.

And that right there gives Peter all the control he needs. He takes the carte blanche, but probably not the way Stiles intended. Peter’s so gentle with the boy it hurts him, make him cry and beg and push Peter’s buttons, all because he can’t stand being treated like something precious.

So Peter presses whisper-soft kisses to his skin while stretching him open carefully. He cradles the trembling boy close as he grinds his cock inside the young, fragile body, and murmurs praise against the flushed skin of his throat.

He doesn’t leave a mark.

 

***

 

The pack notices. Because of course they do. How could they not? Peter’s more stable, easier to tolerate, and Stiles is quieter, sharper. More ruthless in his planning, in the execution of those plans, and in his criticism.

But it takes them a long time to stumble across the _reason_.

Scott stays behind, after one pack meeting where Stiles had been just a little too cutting. Even for him, even when measured against his new normal. Scott knows he’s not okay.

He’s not expecting Peter to sidle out of the shadows, to grip Stiles and haul him back against Peter’s chest with a controlled ferocity. To whisper, “Set the wards, and let go.”

He’s even more surprised when Stiles holds out his hand, palm up, and replies, “Do the honours?”

Scott freezes when he sees Peter trace one claw over the delicate skin of Stiles’s wrist. Stiles doesn’t move. Not until Peter nips at his shoulder, fangs drawing blood. Stiles swipes at the torn skin, muttering, “Cunt.”

Scott is shocked. The word is _ugly_ , vicious, but Stiles says it with something like fondness.

And then wards are snapping into place, and Scott can’t leave. He doesn’t know when Stiles even learned this, never mind set up wards that would respond to his blood. He tries to spring forward when Stiles takes a swing at Peter, but he can’t move his feet.

“Oh, no,” Peter laughs as he ducks. “A good fight isn’t going to solve anything. Not this time.”

Stiles shrugs. His eyes look flat. Dead. “Maybe not, but it’ll still feel really fuckin’ good.” And then he’s trying to throw another punch.

This time, Peter catches Stiles’s arm before the blow can land. “If something good is what you’re after,” he purrs, “then strip.”

Scott’s stomach turns as Stiles’s eyes spark. He’s relieved when Stiles refuses, when his best friend keeps struggling. But his relief dies quickly when Peter’s claws snick out.

His heart is beating in his throat, watching Stiles dance around Peter’s deadly grip. They’ve done this before. There’s no way that Stiles could evade Peter, could know Peter well enough to slide through minute openings, if they hadn’t.

But Peter’s a werewolf, and no matter how smart or fast or practised Stiles is, he’s still only human. So it’s no surprise when Peter lands a glancing blow. Scott’s just thankful there’s no blood on Peter’s claws.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Peter smirks. “I told you to strip.”

“Or what? You’ll shred my clothes?”

“I’ll get you bare, one way,” Peter pauses as his eyes flash, “or another.”

Stiles raises his chin, narrows his eyes. “Belt, shoes, socks,” he says, apropos of absolutely nothing, as far as Scott can tell.

But Peter seems to understand, because he nods. “Deal.” Scott gets it when Peter unbuckles his belt. “Oh, and lose the knife.”

Stiles pauses from where he’s shrugging off his plaid overshirt. “It’s just evening the playing a field a little.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Sure it is. Until I’ve gotten it off you.”

Soon, Stiles stands in nothing more than his already-torn t-shirt and boxers. Peter’s still clothed, though barefoot. Scott doesn’t know what’s going on and isn’t sure what he’s most afraid of.

He sees the muscles in Stiles’s back tense, and knows that he’s going to throw himself at Peter again. He doesn’t understand why, though. He’s almost grateful when Peter lunges first, bearing the both of them to the floor. Peter turns them as they fall, so most of the hit is absorbed by his shoulder, and then they’re rolling. When they stop, Peter’s pressing Stiles down with the length of his body. Scott’s pleased to see the way Stiles’s limbs thrash against Peter’s bulkier frame, but he’s worried, too. If things go bad, there’s nothing he can do to help, caught as he is by the wards.

“Get off—lemme up you fucking—”

“That’s it,” Peter praises. “Let go.”

Stiles stills for a moment. “Were you not paying attention back there? What the hell did you think that was?”

“That,” Peter says sharply, teeth clicking on the _t_ , “was you trying to treat the symptoms rather than the disease.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but his expression twists into something ugly. He fights, going all-out to try and dislodge Peter. It’s frankly impressive, and might get him somewhere if Peter didn’t already have the upper hand, but as it is. Well.

Peter only puts up with about a minute of it. Then he swipes his claws none-too-carefully over what little clothing Stiles is still wearing, and pulls them off. “I said _let go_ , Stiles. If I wanted you quiet I’d stop up your mouth with my cock.”

And that’s just. More than Scott ever wanted to hear.

Peter moves, then, manhandles Stiles until he’s upright, and Stiles just. He doesn’t fight. There’s something cracked and vulnerable about him right now, and Scott hates seeing it. Hates knowing that it’s there to see, but that he didn’t. That Stiles didn’t let him.

Peter lays Stiles across his lap, holding Stiles’s arms at the small of his back, keeping him effectively pinned. His hand comes down _hard_ on Stiles’s ass, and Stiles twitches, breathes harshly, but otherwise accepts it. Scott doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but this just. It feels _wrong_.

Peter’s hand cracks as it connects with Stiles’s butt, over and over. Scott can see how red his friend’s skin is, would be scared if he couldn’t tell that Peter’s being careful—something he never expected to see and doesn’t know how to feel about. Peter’s voice is strained when he snarls, “Goddamnit, Stiles, _let go_ , don’t make me get my belt,” and Scott doesn’t know if it’s the latest strike against the underside of Stiles’s thigh, or Peter’s threat, but he’s glad when Stiles lets out this broken-sounding yelp.

Oddly enough, so is Peter. “That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my good boy.”

Stiles screams when Peter drags the tips of his claws over the abused skin of one cheek, and Scott’s heart skips a beat before slamming against his ribs, the sound battering his eardrums and throwing his instincts into overdrive. He scents the air frantically, expecting blood, but. Nothing.

Stiles’s shriek subsides into sobs, and that seems to have been what Peter was after, because he hauls Stiles up. Gathers him close, petting his hair and letting him cry and twitch and choke and gasp with the force of something that Scott’s never seen from him, never even knew Stiles had in him.

It seems like a long time before he quiets, going still in Peter’s arms. Scott feels cold, watching this. Like everything he thought he knew about the two in front of him was an act, a mask, something they put on and took off to hide from him and everyone else in the pack for heaven only knew why and how long.

“There,” Peter murmurs quietly, “isn’t that better?”

Stiles nods. “Peter?” he asks, voice cracking. “Will you make me feel good?”

Peter’s face goes soft, and Scott feels his jaw drop. “Of course, sweet boy.”

And he should look away, because this . . . if he was intruding before, he’s being a straight-up pervert now. Because watching Peter Hale wipe Stiles’s face with a handkerchief before kissing him tenderly is more than voyeurism. Seeing the way Stiles clutches at Peter—his shirt and shoulders and hair—makes him want to turn his head.

But he can’t—not because of the wards, they’ll stop him from leaving, but not from closing his eyes or turning away from this—because it’s like a car crash, and it’s his best friend, and he might be scared and sick and confused, but he needs to see what happens, needs to know what he’s asking Stiles about later.

He doesn’t expect what comes next. But then, he didn’t expect to see anything he’s seen so far.

Peter stands, suddenly, bringing Stiles with him. He carries the nude teenager to the table, and sets Stiles down on it before dropping to knees and burrowing his way between Stiles’s thighs. At that point Scott _does_ close his eyes, because he just. He’s seen his best friend naked before, but doesn’t need to see him get sucked off by Derek’s creepy zombie uncle.

But even if he doesn’t see, he can still hear, so he knows that Peter’s going slow, that Stiles’s heart is starting to beat a little faster, that the scents of warmcontentaroused and pleasedpossessivefondness are growing stronger in the confined space. He hears the choked little sound Stiles makes following a lewd wet noise, and the way it makes Stiles’s pulse flutter, his arousal spike. Scott hears the sound of skin sliding over cloth— _hands on shoulders_ , he thinks—and Stiles’s whine of Peter’s name.

Scott assumes it’s meant to be a warning, but Peter just hums greedily, and then the muted scent of come permeates the air, followed by the sound of Peter’s throat working. He assumes at that point that it’s safe to open his eyes, but what he sees makes him wish he’d kept them closed.

Peter’s still on his knees, brushing kisses against Stiles’s hips, thighs, abs. Stiles’s eyes are shut, his fingers carding through Peter’s hair. The look on his face is more peaceful than any expression Scott’s ever seen him make while conscious. He whispers Peter’s name, and when Peter looks up at him, he cups the former Alpha’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead. Peter stands, then, draws him off the table, onto his feet, and into Peter’s arms.

The wards drop, and Scott turns to leave, not wanting them to know he was there, when he sees Derek. He realizes that Derek must have seen, too, must have been caught in the grip of Stiles’s heretofore unknown perimeter spell, but when he looks at Derek’s face, he thinks he must be wrong, that Derek must have only seen the last few seconds.

Because Derek isn’t looking at Stiles—bare, bruised, and reeking of sex—being held by Peter with the horrified confusion Scott feels. No, he’s looking at Stiles and his uncle with something close to wonder. With something like hope.


End file.
